


Compendium

by senlinyu



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Allusions to pedophilia, Detailed Fantasies of Rape and Cannibalism, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Family Feels, Ficlet Collection, Infidelity, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rare Pairings, Referenced Werewolf Bestiality, Torture, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2020-10-24 19:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20711144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senlinyu/pseuds/senlinyu
Summary: A collection of prompted ficlets originally posted on tumblr. Pairings vary and are indicated in the chapter titles. Ratings and any relevant warnings are listed in the chapter summary of the particular ficlet.Pairing tags and additional tags will be added as they become applicable.





	1. Hermione Granger/Severus Snape

**Author's Note:**

> Quick and dirty beta-work by Jamethiel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sevmione  
Rating: T  
Warnings: None.

Hermione shifted in her seat and adjusted the hem of her skirt before looking up again at the positively glacial glare being unrelentingly directed at her. 

“So…” she finally said, when the five minute silence began feeling too suffocating to endure. 

Snape’s onyx eyes glittered with cold rage as he continued to glare at her from his hospital bed. 

She had always hoped to someday manage to astonish him into silence, but somehow the experience was less thrilling than she had imagined. In her fantasies, it has always been because she’d demonstrated exceptional brilliance in Potions or DADA. 

Not over the fact she had saved his life—

—by performing an incredibly archaic and illegal marriage bond.

She swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. It would probably be a sign of weakness if she conjured a glass of water.

The illegal part was the minor aspect. A fine of fifty galleons. The Ministry was hardly inclined to do more than slap the wrists of a beloved war heroine. If she was voluntarily consenting to become saddled in (un)holy matrimony with the most unpleasant professor Hogwarts had ever laid eyes on, that was a decision of her own discretion.

The issues were mostly personal. 

Specifically, the issues were Snape’s utter refusal to have anything to do with her.

“Did it never occur to you,” his sonorous voice was rasping from the damage to his vocal cords and vibrating with rage, “Miss Granger—“

“Mrs Snape,” she said smoothly, cutting him off. “My legal name is Hermione Snape now.”

His jaw hung loose for a split second before snapping audibly shut and his glare became even colder and more deathly than before.

“Did it never occur to you,” he said again, his soft voice even more enraged, “that I would not want to be saved by you?”

Hermione couldn’t help but shift slightly in the uncomfortable hospital chair. “Not—at the time,” she said in a carefully rehearsed voice. “In retrospect, I realised it.”

He had clearly expected her to offer a defense. Given that she had not, he subsided once again into a state of cold, yet explosive-feeling rage. 

“We have a month before consummation becomes mandatory,” she finally said, her voice only wobbling slightly. “So—at least there’s time to become acclimatised to it.”


	2. Luna Lovegood/Antonin Dolohov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Luna/Dolohov  
Rating: T  
Warnings: None.

She blinked slowly and watched the dust motes slowly spin through the cold trail of light that illuminated her cell.

She was breathing in dust motes. It was strange to think that her nose and lungs were possibly full of them and she wasn’t noticing. They looked so eerily distinct while suspended in the beam of light, but there were just as many in the shadows. 

Like the nargles, the inability to perceive a thing did not invalidate its existence. 

Dust was composed of many things. Some of them were probably from the straw she was sitting on. From the dirt and grime of the cell she resided in, and other cells further down the hall. Some of them were skin cells, hers and other prisoners’, and the guards’ — and her captor’s. 

The body sloughed them off constantly and just left them like a little trail of particles to be perceived upon shelves and the spines of books and innocuous seeming rays of light. 

She tried to imagine how the sun might feel, to send a beam of sunlight all the way to the earth, into the English countryside, through the window of an old farmhouse and through a crack in an old window shutter just to illuminate dust motes. 

Luna extended her hand until the light fell onto her pale skin. The suspended dust motes spiraled lazily at the disturbance in the air. 

Perhaps the sun would feel better knowing its journey had imparted some vitamin D. 

She turned her wrist and watched the dust motes disappear into the shadows and new ones to sidle into view. 

“What are you doing?” A rough voice suddenly interrupted her train of thought. 

Luna’s looked up slowly from her hand and found two dark eyes peering through the slit in the door. They were mostly black, but a glimmer of light caught in them. 

“Oh, you know…”

The eyes narrowed and the door wrenched open as her captor appeared in the doorway. 

Antonin Dolohov. 

He hadn’t told her his name or even bothered to introduce himself when he’d unceremoniously kidnapped her at the train station, but Luna remember his face from the Department of Mysteries and from an article in the Quibbler about the Death Eaters. 

He’d cursed Hermione Granger very badly. 

She tilted her head and found that his features agreed with him more when they were perceived sideways. 

He pulled out his wand and sealed the crack in the shutter. The cell darkened further but Dolohovs eyes still shone as though they contained the only remaining dust motes. 

Luna sighed and straightened her head. “All the journey, and nothing but a shutter. You could have at least let her peek inside.”

Dolohov jerked and stared down at her. “Who?”

Luna looked back up at the repaired shutter. “It’s no matter. She’s probably looking at something else now.”

Dolohov’s feet shifted audibly in the straw. He seemed oddly nervous around her, although she couldn’t understand why; he was the one who’d kidnapped her, not the other way around. 

“Do you want to stay?” she asked. 

His eyes disappeared in the darkness as he blinked. Then the lights re-emerged. Like fireflies. Or an anglerfish. 

She wondered if anyone had ever told him he had eyes like an anglerfish. 

When she did, he seemed speechless. He waved his wand at her wildly and then stomped his foot and left without a word.

Perhaps he didn’t know about anglerfish the same way he hadn’t known about Nargles. 

When he brought her next meal, she’d tell him all about them. Even if he had kidnapped her, it was no reason to leave him ignorant.


	3. Ginny Weasley & Lord Voldemort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: I’d love to see your take on a meeting or conversation between Ginny and Tom Riddle/Voldemort.
> 
> Rating: T
> 
> Warnings: None.

It was hard to believe he’d ever been the handsome boy of her daydreams and nightmares. 

His thick black hair and dark, expressive eyes were gone. His angular features and straight nose had literally been carved into a skull. His clean, pale skin was deathly white and grayish.

He stood blinking at her with his weird red eyes and skull-like face, and Ginny felt tempted to burst into terrified laughter. 

The handsomest boy she’d ever seen had turned himself into a dancing skeleton-man. 

She pressed her lips tightly together and a horrifying snort escaped through her nose. 

She clapped her hands over her mouth and tried to smother the noise. 

“What is wrong with her?” You-Know-Who said. 

His voice was high-pitched. He sounded like George when he squeezed his nose shut and impersonated their mother. 

Ginny choked audibly, and her knees threatened to give out as a muffled guffaw escaped her.

“I d-d-don’t know.” Mulciber who had dragged her in sounded terrified. 

“You said she would be a valuable source of information. Does this giggling school-girl look as though she has any value at all?”

You-Know-Who’s voice had gotten even higher and shriller. 

Ginny clamped her hands tightly over her mouth and quaked with suppressed laughter. 

She was going to die. She was going to die or be tortured terribly, and for some inexplicable reason, it was going to happen while she laughed over how ugly Tom Riddle had turned out. 

Fred and George at least would be proud of her. Probably Harry too. 

Tears burned in the corners of her eyes but when her hands were wrenched away from her mouth, it wasn’t a sob that emerged but a hysterical howl of laughter. 

“Get her out of my sight!” You-Know-Who shrieked and then proceeded to cast the cruciatus on Mulciber. 

As the Death Eater lay screaming on the ground, Ginny started crying. By then no one was paying any attention to her.


	4. Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hermione/Viktor  
Rating: T  
Warnings: None.

It was probably rude. Scratch that, she knew it was rude. 

Honestly, she’d known it was rude from the moment the idea entered her mind, the entire time she had packed, and during her journey to the Ministry. 

And yet. 

She slipped her beaded bag into her other hand and raised her hand to knock on the large door in front of her one more time.

She could hear the noise resounding against the stone walls inside. 

She stood, shifting her feet and waiting for any sort of response. There was none. 

She withdrew her hand with a small sigh. 

She should probably just go home. 

Home. 

The word was positively dismal-sounding, even in her head. It felt hollow within her chest, and like a pit in her stomach. 

There wasn’t really any home to go to. 

Her parents were still a bit—peeved by her decision to obliviate them without permission, and while she “was still their daughter”, they had decided to stay in Australia rather than return and try to reassemble the lives Hermione had unceremoniously ripped them out of. 

No Hogwarts. She’d graduated now. 

The Weasleys…

Well, that was the most recent disaster. Things hadn’t tied themselves up in the neat relationship bow that everyone had hoped. Post-war and post-graduation, Hermione and Ron had—well, not very much in common aside from Harry, and Harry didn’t really need them in the same way now. 

Her relationship with Ron was all just so—boring. Pubs and watching quidditch matches on the weekends, and talk about “settling down” and marriage and—

—children. 

Children in the abundant plural sense of the word. 

Hermione hadn’t ever thought Ron was like Bill or Charlie, but somehow she hadn’t realised his ideas of adulthood were quite so domestic. 

Now that she was graduated, Ron wanted Hermione to be like his mum. To want to be like his mum. As though her diploma from Hogwarts was decorative rather than a tool for her to use in forging her future. 

Lovely as Molly Weasley was in many regards, Hermione wasn’t prepared to contemplate marriage or children or “settling down” anytime within the next decade, and when she said so, Ron was offended. They’d rowed quite badly, and he’d vented, and it had gotten to Molly…

Suffice to say, things at the Burrow had become quite frosty and suffocating of late. 

Now here she was, standing awkwardly outside the door of someone she hadn’t seen or written to in over two years, inviting herself to visit. 

She nibbled at her bottom lip and curled her fingers into a tight fist. She really should have planned better. He probably wasn’t even home. If he was home, he was clearly not interested in being cast as the “Bulgarian Bonbon” in Hermione’s ridiculously over-publicised and over-exaggerated relationship with War Hero Ronald Weasley. 

Viktor hated attention after all. 

That was the reason he had first noticed her, he’d told her, because she didn’t treat him like everyone else had. 

She drew a deep breath and pivoted, walking rapidly away. 

She was nearly to the gate of the property when there was a loud crack in front of her. She looked up sharply and found Viktor standing ten feet in front of her, his dark eyes wide. 

“Hermy-own!” he said, and then his face flushed and he swallowed. “Her-mion-ninny.”

He said it very deliberately and gently, like it was cherished albeit unpronounceable word. 

The corner of Hermione’s mouth twitched into a nervous smile. “Hello, Viktor. You told me to visit someday.”

He stared at her. “Vere you the van banging at my door?”

The toe of Hermione’s shoe shuffled itself into the dirt path. “Y-Yes.”

He blushed. “I am sorry. I thought it vas reporters.”

Hermione’s stomach shriveled. 

“No. It wasn’t your fault. I should have written first, but intercontinental owl post takes so long, and you weren’t connected to the floo. I thought about sending you my patronus, but I’m not sure if they can travel this far…” her voice trailed off. “So—it was all rather spontaneous, and I needed to go somewhere, and you were the first place I thought of. But if you’re busy or anything, I can just go. I just thought since I’d always said I’d visit that I should at least say hello. So now I have, so now—I’ll be on my way.”

Her face was growing terribly warm as she rambled on and on. 

“Vere are you going on to?”

Hermione shifted. “Well, I’m not sure yet. I was going to see where the next available portkey went.”

“You can stay here.” He said it emphatically. 

Hermione’s chest tightened. Now that she was thinking about it all more carefully, she was realising what a horrid thing she was doing to a boy who was intensely private and who had once sincerely liked her. 

She drew herself up and walked towards him until she passed the property line. 

She looked up at his angular face with its sharp, dark eyes. He’d always reminded her of an eagle or falcon. His eyes had always seemed to notice everything, but he’d always been so very quiet around his classmates and in interviews.

She wondered what he did with all the things he noticed. 

“No. No. I shouldn’t. I should go on now,” she said giving him a smile. “I had always wanted to come, you know. It just never really worked before, but this isn’t the right time either. I’ll write you next time, and come when you’re expecting me.”

She looked up at him a moment longer before she apparated. 

The archway leading into the Bulgarian Ministry appeared in front of her and she hurried inside and back to the international portkey office. 

She gripped her bag and stared up at the departures listed until they began to swim in her eyes. 

“Have you ever been to Amsterdam?”

Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin at the unexpected voice. She whipped her wand out as she turned to find Viktor standing beside her, a suitcase in hand. 

She stared at him, her hand pressed against her pounding chest. “N-no,” she forced out.

Viktor looked up at the departures listed. “I think you vould like it. I haf thought of you many times when I vas there. That is vere we should go first.”

We. 

Hermione swallowed. “You must have Quidditch games though. Or practices. You can’t be running around Europe with me.”

Viktor’s eyes twinkled a moment before his mouth quirked into an amused smile. “Quidditch season just ended, Herm-my-owny.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

Viktor looked back up at the departures. “I vill show you all my favourite cities. Then—perhaps it vill be the right time for you to visit Bulgaria.”


	5. Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hermione/Ron  
Category: Family  
Rating: T  
Warnings: None.  
Inspired by [this comic](https://blvnk-art.tumblr.com/post/160621482649/the-moment-ron-decides-to-leave-the-aurors-office) by blvnk.

Hermione’s face appeared in the doorway while he was shaving.

She was wrapped up in a fluffy bathrobe and hovered behind him instead of coming in and brushing her teeth. 

“Exciting mission?” she asked after a minute. 

Ron shrugged and grabbed a towel to wipe off the rest of the shaving cream. “The smuggling ring me and Harry have been tracking. Got a tip last night. Seems solid. Unicorn foals. Should be easy. If not—“ he grinned at her in the mirror’s reflection, “well, that’s what all that training was for.”

The corners of Hermione’s mouth turned up but her eyes seemed worried as she kept watching him. 

“Do you—like being auror, Ron?”

He turned and looked at her as he pulled his robes off the hook and pulled them over his head. “Makes me the cool uncle, doesn’t it? And someone’s gotta keep an eye on Harry, make sure he keeps his head on straight when he’s trying to do his saving people thing.”

Usually that joke made Hermione’s brown eyes light up, but instead her expression tightened, growing tense.

“Harry looks out for you too, right?”

He stared at her in confusion. “Course he does.”

She gave a little nod. “Be careful today, Ron.”

He buttoned up his robes and stashed his wand before turning to study her. “What’s wrong?”

She gave him a tight smile. “Nothing. You know me, I worry. Sometimes—I think maybe I should have become an auror too.”

Ron stared at her and snorted. “You’d hate it. Come on, Hermione, what’s wrong?”

Her lip caught in her teeth as she stared up at him, hesitating, before she shook her head. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you tonight, when you get back.”

He grimaced. “Now I’m really worried.” He scratched his head and rubbed his hand along the scars on the back of his neck. “You’re alright aren’t you? You—“ his stomach dropped as he suddenly remembered. “Your appointment with the healer was yesterday.” 

She’d been tired and barely eating, so she’d scheduled a visit with a mediwitch. He’d got home so late the night before, she’d already been in bed.

He reached out and touched her forehead. “What’d they say? Is it bad?”

She shook her head quickly. “No, no. I’m not sick. I—I’m pregnant.”

She smiled nervously up at him. 

His hand dropped away and he stared at her in amazement. 

Pregnant. 

She was pregnant. They were going to have a kid. He was going to be a dad. 

“Bloody—hell…” he forced out. “That’s—brilliant.”

His eyes were burning, and he felt as though he’d just been rammed in the side of the head with a bludger. He pulled Hermione into his arms, hugging her and kissing the top of her head. 

“Bloody hell. We’re having a kid. You’re gonna be the most brilliant mum.” He turned her face towards his so he could kiss her. As he was kissing her, he realised he’d started crying. 

“Bloody hell,” he said again, stepping back and rubbing his face. “What—what do you need? Do you need time off? Do you need me to take time off?”

“No. No.” Hermione shook her head and smiled up at him. Her eyes were shining. “The mediwitch said everything looks fine. She prescribed a few potions I can pick up at the apothecary later today to help with morning sickness.” 

“Well, I’m not letting you become an auror now, that’s for bloody sure.” He kept finding tears rolling down his face no matter how many times he scrubbed his face with his hand. “So—how far are you? Did they say when you’d be due?”

Hermione started opening her mouth when his auror badge suddenly gave a sharp tinny ringing sound. 

His stomach clenched as he looked down at it and watched it turn yellow. 

“Fuck. I’ve gotta go. No. Wait. This is important. Is there anything you need first?”

The ringing grew louder and his badge turned bright orange.

Hermione stepped back, raising her chin. “Harry needs you. You go. I’ll be here when you get back.”

He stood frozen while the tinny ringing filled the bathroom. 

“Go,” she said again. 

He stepped forward and kissed her, holding her face in his hands and feeling like he’d just been handed the whole world and then been asked to put it down and come back to it later. 

“I love you.” He kissed the tip of her nose and then her forehead. “I’ll be back tonight. You be safe, right?”

She gave a quick nod. He went quickly to the fireplace in their bedroom and grabbed a handful of floo powder. 

“Ministry of Magic,” he said as he stepped in. 

He was still staring at her face as he disappeared. 

He didn’t even make it down to the DMLE before he ran into Harry, who rushing up the hall, pulling his coat on. 

“There you are. Our informant set off an emergency beacon, the whole team’s going in,” Harry said as Ron turned and walked beside him.

“The beacon’s signal is coming from Devon…”

Hermione is pregnant. 

He’s going to be a dad. 

Hermione’s pregnant. 

_ “Be careful today, Ron.” _

Ron’s slowed and then stopped in the hallway. 

Harry kept going a few more feet before he stopped and turned around, studying Ron. “What’s wrong?”

Ron stood staring at his best friend. He swallowed. “Hermione’s pregnant.”

Harry’s eyes lit up but his eyebrows knit together as he kept studying Ron. 

Ron drew a deep breath and met Harry’s eyes. “I—I didn’t want to leave home this morning.”

Understanding slowly dawned across Harry’s face. 

Ron’s jaw twitched and his closed his hand into a fist. “I haven’t told her, but George needs help with the expansion.” His throat felt thick. “I don’t want to bail on you though.”

Harry stuffed his hands into his pockets and nodded slowly as though there wasn’t an emergency they were supposed to be rushing towards. 

“You should go tell her then,” Harry said after a second, gesturing over his shoulder.

Ron blinked. “Now? What about the smuggling ring?”

Harry cocked his head to the side and grinned, flipping the collar of his coat so that it stood up. “We’ve got this. Go home, Ron. Go be a dad. Give Hermione a hug from me.”

Harry didn’t wait for Ron to reply. He turned on his heel, continued to the apparition point, and disappeared with a crack.

Ron stood in the hallway a second longer and then pulled off his auror badge, stuffing it into his back pocket. 

He headed back to the Floo.


	6. Draco Malfoy/Luna Lovegood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Draco x Luna during Deathly Hallows.   
Rating: T  
Warnings: references to torture.

He stood awkwardly, staring into the basement. 

“Hullo, Malfoy.” Lovegood’s dreamy eyes looked up at him.

He’d always thought she was batty, but given the choice of Lovegood and the old wandmaker or all the Death Eaters celebrating Christmas upstairs, he found himself infinitely preferring the basement of the manor. 

“Lovegood.” He descended the stairs holding the two plates and looked around. He spotted Ollivander crumpled in the corner. His chest tightened as he remembered visiting the wand shop and getting his unicorn hair wand. 

His parents had both gotten their wands from Ollivander. His grandparents too. 

Ollivander was an old pureblood name. Now the old man was being kept in the basement like an animal. Lovegood was a pureblood too. Mad as loon, most likely, but still a pureblood. 

Lovegood tilted her head as she stood up and stared at him. “Happy Christmas, Malfoy.”

Draco nodded sharply and shoved both plates into her hands. “Don’t break them,” he muttered, “that china’s worth more than your house.”

He brought breakfast the next morning too. 

They had house-elves, but if he was in the basement, he wasn’t required to be anywhere else. Every progressing minute with his aunt made Lovegood seem more and more sane. 

There was another party for New Year, and Draco was beginning to wish he’d stayed at Hogwarts with the Carrows. He snuck down to the basement after three hours. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said after sitting in silence for several minutes. “None of it was supposed to be like this.”

Lovegood’s pale eyes studied him in the darkness. “What did you think it would be like?”

Draco opened his mouth and then snapped it shut. 

“We’re supposed to be better than them,” he finally said. “Being pure was supposed to make us better. Instead there’s a cannibalistic werewolf in my house as a guest and one of the greatest wandmakers in the world sleeping on a pile of straw in my basement.” He breathed in through his teeth. “We’re supposed to be better, but every minute that goes by makes me feel like we’re worse. I”—he ran a hand through his hair—“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’m marked. My father’s marked. There’s no other path for us now.”

Luna walked over and seated herself beside him on the steps. 

“I never had a friend until Harry,” she said in a dreamy voice. 

Draco rolled his eyes. Of course she would just go on about Saint Potter. He was tempted to stand and leave, but the distant sound of agonised screaming reached them through the floor.

Dolohov had brought a few Muggles for the evening’s entertainment. 

His shoulders hunched, and he stayed seated on the steps. 

“Sometimes I’ve wondered whether I joined DA because I believed in it, or because it was the first time no one called me Loony Lovegood and stole my shoes.” She blinked slowly and looked over at him. “It’s an important question to ask yourself from time to time: if you really believe in something or if you just believe it because you don’t know what will happen if you stop believing it.”

Draco stared at her and waited for her to give her conclusion. Her eyes were far away as she gazed into the darkness. 

“And…?” he asked pointedly

She blinked and looked at him. “I ask myself if it’s worth dying for.”

Draco looked away and licked his lips. “I’d die for my family,” he said, nodding slowly. 

Lovegood nodded with a vague smile on her lips, as though he hadn’t just reiterated their opposing sides in the current war which had her imprisonded in his basement. 

“Then—I ask myself if it’s something worth living my life for,” she said. 

Draco stared at her. Dying was doable. It was a dramatic sacrifice, just a moment and it’d be over.

Living. Day after day. Listening to his aunt’s climbing cackling laugh, watching the Muggles scream, thinking about slowly becoming more and more like crowd of depraved, half-mad Death Eaters upstairs. 

“I don’t—“ he said. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life like this.”

Lovegood didn’t look surprised or even pleased by the treacherous admission he’d just made. She just nodded again. 

“No. I don’t think it would be a very nice thing to live for.”

Draco’s shoulders dropped and he stared blankly ahead. “What do I do then?”

“I’m sure you’ll know when it matters.” 

Draco shook his head. “I don’t think I will.”

Lovegood reached out and pressed her index finger gently between his eyes. “You just have to ask yourself if it’s a choice you can live with.”

Draco drew back sharply from her touch. His heart was shuddering. 

What kind of fucked up world was he in that the kindest person in his house was the prisoner down in his basement. 

“I—I’m sorry you’re here, Lovegood. Even if you are mental,” he said after a minute. 

Lovegood gave soft, musical laugh. Draco stared at her and wished that he hadn’t just realised that she was pretty.

She was pretty, and she was being nice to him—which could just be a survival tactic but somehow he felt nearly positive that it wasn’t. This was just the way Luna Lovegood was. 

The clock upstairs clanged for midnight, and the shouting and laughter grew louder. 

Draco leaned forward impulsively and kissed her, just for a moment. Her lips were soft against his. She didn’t draw back. It felt like an electric shock through his body. 

He jerked back and glanced away. “Happy New Year, Lovegood.”

She stayed unmoving beside him. After several seconds, he turned and looked at her again, trying to guage her reaction.

A faint smile was playing on the corners of her mouth. “That was my first kiss,” she said. 

Draco stared at her a moment longer, then he leaned forward and ran his fingers through her soft, downy hair. 

He kissed her again, more slowly. 


	7. Harry Potter/Narcissa Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Harry/Narcissa  
Rating: M  
Warnings: Dubious consent, coercion, psychological manipulation, infidelity.

Harry shifted slightly in the uncomfortable chair he’d been directed to sit in. The wing-backed chair that usually sat opposite the sofa had been replaced a hideously ornate corner chair with a knobby carved back that poked through his robes if he wasn’t sitting perfectly straight. 

The teacup and saucer in his hand clattered slightly and his hostess instantly looked up at him with her bright, crystal blue eyes. 

“More tea?” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice was soft and diaphanous, but there was something about it that slid like a shiver through his blood. 

Harry swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling tight and tried not to shift into the knobby back again. 

“No.” His voice threatened to climb slightly, and he coughed in an attempt to stop it. 

“I hope I’m not keeping you.”

Harry licked his lips. “No. No. I’m happy to come and keep you updated. It’s the least I can do.”

Mrs Malfoy shook her head. The movement didn’t cause the teacup and saucer in her hand to so much as vibrate. “Mr Potter, you know I am eternally in your debt. My husband would have received a Dementor’s Kiss if you hadn’t intervened.”

Harry’s clothes felt restrictive and he shifted again. The teacup rattled loudly, and he gripped the saucer more tightly trying to stabilise it. “Well—I’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

The corners of Mrs Malfoy’s mouth twitched, and Harry resisted the urge to reach up and loosen the collar of his robes. He usually found Malfoy Manor unbearably cold, but today it felt stifling.

Mrs Malfoy took a slow sip of her tea, her piercing blue eyes studying him over the rim of the cup before she set both cup and saucer back onto the tea tray. “How have you been lately?”

“Good. Good. Auror training—Trials.” Harry had never found himself so at a loss for words. He remembered being quite mouthy with her in the past, but as he sat in her excruciatingly uncomfortable chair trying to keep his teacup from clattering, all he could think about was how extremely composed she looked, perched on the edge of a sofa, her pale green robes draped around her as though she were a butterfly or a moth. 

“You’re dating Miss Weasley, aren’t you?”

Harry nodded and cringed as his teacup rattled again. There wasn’t anywhere nearby to put it down. “She’s at school now.”

Mrs Malfoy’s eyes seemed to glitter. “Of course, she’s younger than you, isn’t she?”

Harry nodded jerkily and the movement made his teacup topple and the tea sloshed up over one side. Harry tried to tilt it back and compensate, but instead upended the entire cup of tea onto his lap. The fragile teacup chipped as it landed on the rug. 

“Fuck,” he said. 

The curse was entirely out of embarrassment, the tea wasn’t particularly hot anymore. 

Instantly Mrs Malfoy appeared in front of him, as though she’d flown across the room. She had several napkins in hand and began pressing them against his lap to blot up all the tea. 

“Are you alright? Oh dear, it must be so hot.” 

“It’s—fine,” he choked out.

Her fingers were trailing lightly along his thighs, and she was kneeling between his legs. 

Harry tried to focus on the tea, but his mind was entirely elsewhere. The blood pounding nervously through him had shot down to his groin the instant Mrs Malfoy had laid a hand on his leg. He was simultaneously terrified of her noticing and desperately hopeful that her hands would move a little further up.

His breath got caught in his throat as he stared down at her. 

She had a long, pale curl escaping from behind her ear, and he suddenly wanted to tangle his hand in her hair and keep her there. His whole body was warm and too tight, as though he’d outgrown it. Mrs Malfoy’s fingers were running over his thighs and closer and closer to his groin. He gave a strained whimper in the back of his throat. 

Mrs Malfoy froze. Harry’s face immediately felt as though it had caught fire.

“Are you burned? You poor thing. Let me see.” Her voice was soft and soothing, and it sent a shiver through him. 

Her hands caught the hem of his robes and started drawing them up. Harry’s brain suddenly leapt into action and he closed his hands over hers. 

“No!” His voice was a panicked yelp. 

Mrs Malfoy looked up at him and understanding seemed to dawn in her eyes. A little smirk appeared in the corner of her mouth. 

Harry wished he could just apparate away and never come back. 

“Mr Potter,” she said in a soft, cajoling voice. “I have a son older than you.”

Harry was well aware. 

“Let me see if you’re hurt.” She began to pull her hands free. “This is what mothers do…”

Harry found himself letting her and just sat in limp anticipation as she pushed his robes up towards his hips. 

To his relief the fabric bunched up over his groin and he gripped at it, trying to conceal his erection. Mrs Malfoy dipped her head closer and traced her cool, dainty fingers gently along his inner thighs. Harry bit back a groan. 

This didn’t feel motherly at all, but he really didn’t have any reference to base it on. He’d never dropped a cup of tea on his lap before.

The light teasing touches kept climbing higher and higher, and Harry tried to be subtle as he parted his legs further and prayed she wouldn’t stop. His heart was on the verge of beating out of his chest. 

He’d never experienced anything so intensely pleasurable and utterly inappropriate in his life. He stared at her without breathing and tried to memorise every detail to review once he was alone in bed. 

Her breath gently stirred the hair on his legs as her hands crept slowly higher. His cock twitched painfully, and his balls drew up as he felt himself tense with anticipation. 

What if her hands moved closer? What if she brushed against his cock? What if she noticed how hard he was getting?

It was hard to think clearly about anything but her soothing fingers and how painfully erect he was getting as he leaned back in the knobby, uncomfortable chair and internally begged her hands to climb higher. 

Her fingers paused on his right thigh and rubbed lightly at a pink spot. 

“Oh dear, if I only had my wand. I could cast a spell and soothe it.” 

Harry swallowed. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt,” he said in a thick voice. 

She looked up at him. Her eyes were so beautifully blue, and the high collar of her green robes cut into a deep v that showed a hint of her collarbones. Harry was suddenly intensely interested in what Mrs Malfoy looked like beneath her robes. 

“Harry,” she said. Her voice was almost sad, but not pitying. It was like a soothing balm washing over him with a shudder, sweeping through his veins and he suddenly wanted to know what it would feel like if she hugged him.

As he looked at her, she lowered her head and her pale pink lips brushed against his leg. 

Harry gave a guttural moan and then wrenched himself back, shoving his robes quickly down. 

“I need to go,” he said, forcing himself to stand. 

A firm hand caught him in the middle of his chest and shoved him back into the chair as Mrs Malfoy stood in a fluid movement. 

“Mr Potter,” she said in a severe voice, “ didn’t anyone teach you it’s rude to leave without finishing a cup of tea?”

Harry mouth worked up and down soundlessly as he tried to figure out what was happening. 

Mrs Malfoy’s hand slid tantalizingly across his chest to his throat and Harry couldn’t suppress the shiver that rolled through him. 

Her face was suddenly extremely close as her palm pressed against his cheek comfortingly. 

“Oh, you poor thing. You look as though you’ve never had anyone worry about you before. Let me take care of you.” She drew him closer and pressed his head against her chest until he could hear her heartbeat and feel the softness of her breast. 

Her mouth brushed near his ear. “I know all about taking care of boys.”

Harry’s heart was pounding frantically in his chest. Had she put something in his tea? No. They’d both been drinking the same tea…

His brain short circuited as her hand trailed down his chest and then cupped him through his robes. Harry gave a ragged moan. 

“Sorry! S-sorry—“ he said breathlessly as her fingers wrapped firmly around his cock and he bucked against her hand. 

“Harry—“ her voice was soft again, and her hand pumped down his length. “Let me take care of you. Everyone’s always wanting you to help them. How must your mother feel that no one’s taking care of you and your needs?”

Harry blinked and tried not to just focus on the sensation of her hand stroking him through his robes, and her breast against his cheek. 

“I—“ he started but then trailed off as his hips rolled into her touch. 

Hermione and Ginny were both off at school. Mrs Weasley has been in deep mourning for Fred. Auror training was brutal, and whenever he did anything less than perfectly his instructor would make a disapproving clicking sound as though Harry’s survival to that point had been nothing but dumb luck. Ron was having an even harder time of it, and threatened to quit almost daily. 

She stepped back and pushed him more firmly into the knobby back of the chair as she slid down between his legs.

He felt his robes shifting up as her hands moved under them towards his cock. She unfastened the buttons on his boxers in a second and then her warm, soft hand was wrapped around the length of his cock and her other hand was gently cupping his balls. 

“We can’t—“ he tried to say and moved to push her away. 

“Be still!” Her voice cracked like a whip, and Harry froze. 

Her eyes were flashing dangerously. 

Then her expression softened and her voice became sweet and lilting once more. “Good boy. You are such an exceptional boy, aren’t you?” 

Her hand was pumping firmly up and down his cock with a pleasurably intensity that was nearly painful. Harry bit down on his lower lip and tried not to groan. 

She pushed his robes up until his straining cock was exposed to the cool air. Mrs Malfoy studied it with an appraising eye, sliding her fingers lightly up to the head and watching it bob and twitch as it stood erect and lewd in the Malfoy Manor tea room. 

“Touch yourself,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Show me how you like to touch yourself. I want to see what you like.”

Harry had never wanked in front of anyone in his life. Sex with Ginny had always been rushed; fumbling, and uncertain, as quick as they could wherever they didn’t think they’d get caught. Why wank when there was a warm, wet, soft girl to push inside of? And he’d certainly never wanked in front of any of his friends. 

If anyone had asked him, he would have said the idea sounded as sexy as a bucket of ice water. Yet as he sat limply in the knobby chair with his erection bobbing inches away from Narcissa Malfoy’s face, he had never felt so incredibly aroused in his life. 

He reached down obediently and wrapped his fingers around his cock. His strokes were firm and practiced. His eyes fluttered closed as he tugged at himself the way he liked, and his toes curled in his shoes. 

This had to be a dream brought on by stress. There was no way he was actually wanking in Malfoy Manor while Narcissa Malfoy knelt before him and watched with her bright blue eyes. 

It was just a really confusing sexual fantasy. 

His hand started moving faster and faster, quick jerks that sent sparks of pleasure shooting through his nerves as he got closer and closer to coming. 

A hand suddenly stopped him. His eyes snapped open and he gave a startled gasp. 

Mrs Malfoy was still in front of him. She drew away his hand and very slowly and lightly pressed a kiss against the head of his cock. 

Harry’s stomach and pelvic muscles twitched with painful violence as he struggled not to explode at the sensation and sight. 

She wrapped her fingers tightly around the base. “I’m going to take care of you the way you need to be taken care of.”

Her pale blonde hair brushed against his legs as she leaned forward and his cock slid slowly into her warm mouth. 

When Harry prepared to leave Malfoy Manor half an hour later, he felt as though his knees were about to give out from under him, and he still wasn’t sure exactly how it had all happened. 

“You’ll come again for tea next week, won’t you?” Mrs Malfoy asked in her sweet, diaphanous voice as he stood up unsteadily from the chair. 

“Yeah. Yeah of course,” Harry said immediately. His heart was already beginning to pound in anticipation. 

“I get so lonely here by myself.” Her eyes dropped down as she straightened the collar on his robes. “But I know you’re busy. People must make so many demands on your time.”

“I can try to come more,” Harry said. 

Her eyes glittered. “I would love to see you more often, and make sure you’re being taken care of.”

The words shivered through Harry like magic and he fumbled slightly as he grabbed a handful of floo powder. “I’ll make room for it—whenever you want. You—let me know if you ever need anything.”

She just smiled at him as he stepped into the fireplace. 

* * *

Narcissa sat stiff and unmoving in a drab grey room until the door clanged. She shot to her feet as Draco shuffled through the door. 

A strained, horrified gasp escaped her. His grey eyes were dull, his face gaunt, his bones were jutting visibly through his prison robes.

“Oh Draco…” she said in a tearful voice as she wrapped her arms around him and helped him sink down into the wooden chair. “Don’t they feed you?”

Draco sat in silence for several seconds as though he were struggling to remember how to speak. 

“Mother,” he finally said. 

Narcissa held his face in her hands pressed a kiss against his forehead. “Oh my darling, darling boy. I’m so sorry.” 

She stood hugging him and running her fingers through his tangled hair as she blinked back tears. “You have to tell me everything. Think now. I know it’s hard, you have focus. Pull up the memories, this is a safe place to remember yourself.”

Draco was silent for several more moments before he gasped raggedly. His hands clutched at her robes. “It’s so cold here. Mother… I can’t—I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. The—dementors—”

Narcissa held his face firmly in her hands, tilting his head back until his eyes met hers. Her voice grew sharp. “No. You will hold on. Your probation appeal is being processed. I told you, I’m going to get you out.”

He stared up at her despairingly. “How?”

The corner of her mouth twitched into a thin smile and her voice became soft and cajoling. “You just focus on holding on. Mother will take care of everything else. You know I’ll do anything to protect my son.”


	8. Manacled Severus/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: i would sell my left toe for some manacled! snape x hermione  
Rating: M (for mature themes no sexual content)  
TW: references to self-harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this prompt a while ago and I’ve been sitting on it because I wasn’t sure how to make it work. I felt that I would either have to make it pre-date the Manacled story, in which case the characters would be almost unrelated iterations, or to fit it into the events of the story. I decided to go with the latter option.  
This “chapter” is a sort of spin-off/deleted scene set in the period during March after Draco agreed to make an Unbreakable Vow but prior to Hermione going to help rescue Ron. Timeline-wise it occurs between Chapter 50 and 51, if you want to revisit Manacled for a refresher about Hermione’s mental/emotional state and her relationship with Draco during that period. 
> 
> Manacled is Dramione, and this spin-off is not written to contradict that relationship, however it does have a brief Sevmione moment. 
> 
> Enjoy.

**March 2003**

Hermione sat perched on the edge of one of the agonising armchairs in Severus’ sitting room, staring intently at the books crammed into the shelves lining the walls.

The spines of most of them were so cracked it was impossible to read the titles. 

The house was cold and silent. Severus was on shift at Sussex; she wasn’t sure when he’d arrive. He had information on new curses from the Curse Division. Hermione had volunteered to come pick it up because everyone else refused to and Kingsley and Moody were busy.

Hermione had expected to wait outside in the February rain, as was Severus’ typical treatment of visitors. Instead the door had clicked and swung ajar when she arrived at the front step. She’d entered hesitantly, careful not to touch anything. 

The room was lit only by the cold winter light.

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. The air was stale and dusty, with undertones of dried herbs and years of potion brewing.

Tomorrow was Tuesday. She’d get see Draco again

If he was still alive. Assuming that Moody hadn’t assigned him a suicide mission in the missive she’d delivered the week before. 

Surely they’d tell her if he died. Surely. 

He still refused to speak to her unless necessary. He trained her weekly with a few vicious words. His eyes burned with icy resentment every time they raked across her. It was as though he couldn’t stand seeing her any longer; as though he were already completely disillusioned with the price he’d paid for her. 

Every seething glance sat like a stone in her stomach. 

She looked down at her lap. Her knees were carefully together, and her feet were firmly pressed against the floor as she refrained from fidgeting while she waited in the cold room. 

She felt tainted. It was as though Draco now looked her and really did see a whore—one he’d impulsively bought and didn’t actually want.

She drew a deep breath as her stomach twisted and her shoulders nearly shook. She gripped her hands together, looking down at them. The fingertips were stained from handling potion ingredients, and her nails were dry and splitting from being constantly washed.

All her cracks were beginning to show. 

She exhaled and watched her breath condensate briefly before vanishing. She felt worn through; stretched out until she was nearly transparent. There was a constant sense of emptiness seated low in her chest.

She’d assumed her Dark Magic use would be the thing that killed her in the end, but now she thought she might actually die from the corrosive guilt buried inside her. 

She'd barely slept in weeks. A few minutes stolen here and there were the best she could manage, even if she worked until her hands were shaking with exhaustion. She’d take Dreamless Sleep Draught tonight, so that she be rested and alert for foraging and training. 

She hadn’t eaten much in days. Tea was the most she could manage half the time. She’d lose her appetite for days after seeing Draco and be unable to eat from dread during the days leading up to the next. She’d tried taking appetite stimulants to force herself to eat, but the block was psychological. It didn’t matter how hungry she made herself feel, everything tasted like sand and she wanted to vomit when it hit her stomach.

She leaned back, resting against the back of the armchair. The springs inside were all either broken or wearing through the cushioning. The seat and backing alternately sagged or stabbed through, depending where she put her weight. 

She was tired enough not to care. She closed her eyes, trying to occlude the entirety of her consciousness. A blank and empty room. Nothing there. Just a place to breathe. 

The walls shifted. There was a long, agonised scream. 

Colin. 

No. 

Don’t think about it. 

She added a second wall. 

As she did so, she felt a hand near her throat. “Like a rose in a graveyard. I wonder what you could have become without the war.”

No. 

She didn’t want to think about that night either. 

She shoved it away. 

“Ron was right. You are a bitch.”

Wasn’t there anywhere in her mind with even a split-second peace in it?

Her eyes snapped open, and she dropped the walls, allowing her usual compartments to settle back into place. The guilt swept back through, up to her throat. High enough to drown in if she didn’t fight to keep her chin up. 

There was a spring digging into her left shoulder.

She sat forward and stared again at the cracked spines of Severus’ books. 

There was an almost silent sound of apparition in the hallway. Hermione turned as Severus stepped heavily into the room, his face sallow and exhausted. There was no surprise in his eyes at finding her in his sitting room, but he did appear to grimace as he caught sight of her. 

Rather than sweeping smoothly into the room, he moved stiffly, edging past her towards the kitchen. She stood to follow him. When she caught up with him, he was across the room, unsteadily grabbing several potions from the cabinet. The moment was clumsy. Several vials toppled and fell onto the worktop with a loud clatter. He rested one hand over them, covering them as he rapidly downed several vials. His hands had a subtle tremor. 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed, her heavy sense of exhaustion forgotten as she approached quietly, drawing her wand and silently casting a series of diagnostic spells on him. 

As she was inspecting them, Severus finished taking the potions. She was vaguely aware of his head dipping, resting against the shelf of the cabinet as he gave a long, strained sigh. 

Hermione was completely absorbed in analysing the diagnostic results until they all abruptly vanished before her eyes. She looked up and found Severus glaring down at her, his own wand drawn and his expression black. 

“Has no one acquainted you with the concept of privacy?” His voice was venomous.

She stared up at him calmly, not letting her expression betray the painful tightening in her chest. “You’re a member of the Order, and I’m your healer. It’s my job to monitor your wellbeing.”

He sneered, smoothly sweeping the fallen potion bottles up off the worktop and putting them back into the cabinet. His hands seemed steady now. “I did not consent to your meddling.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m responsible for keeping Harry in good health; half the time that requires me to stun him and keep him in stasis or sedated without his consent. You’re a crucial asset within the Order. I’m cleared to do whatever I deem necessary to keep members active.”

She reached towards him, and he instantly drew away. 

Her hand dropped to her side. “You’re poisoning yourself working in Sussex. Dark Magic is cumulative. Whatever preventative measures you’ve been taking, they’re not enough anymore. Let me help you.”

She could tell by his expression that he intended to refuse. “I’m a healer, Severus,” she said again, her tone firm. “You’ve credited me in the past with being a fairly good one. I don’t think you’ve ever been the type to offer empty praise. If you meant it, let me do my job.”

He stared down at her, his exhaustion and residual pain visible in his eyes despite the number of potions he’d already taken. Hermione kept meeting his glare until he exhaled heavily and rolled his eyes, summoning a chair and dropping into it heavily. 

He stared stonily across the kitchen as Hermione stepped behind him, his shoulders drawn up defensively.

She brushed her hand over his clothed shoulder. “I promise, I don’t bite.”

He shot her a withering look from the corner of his eye. She ignored it and glanced down to cast a new diagnostic spell on him.

She hesitated briefly before carefully reaching out and brushing aside his black hair from the back of his neck. He flinched away instantly. 

She withdrew her hand and stood staring at him for a moment. 

“If you could undo a few buttons on your robes and shirt,” she finally said in the clinical healer voice she’d perfected over the years. 

Severus was still for a moment before his arm shifted to slowly undo the top buttons of his clothing. Hermione used the time to cast a more elaborate diagnostic and a series of analytic spells. 

“This is an old injury,” she said as she used her wand tip to trace along the spreading damage and carefully committed the reading to memory. 

His head barely dipped in acknowledgement. “A Gryffindor prank when I was a student at Hogwarts,” he said, his voice bitter. “Ironically utilising a spell I’d invented. Healing for spinal injuries wasn’t what it is now.”

Hermione nodded. There had been a considerable advancement in magical healing in the decade following the first Wizarding War. Severus’ injury predated that and would have been too old to have benefited from most of them.

His clothes were loose enough for her to fold the collar of his robes and shirt down to reveal the skin on the back of his neck. There was a faint discoloration near his spine visible through his pale skin, as though he were bruised. He was sitting rigidly tense.

She paused, her fingers wavering just a breath away. “I’m going to touch you.”

She gave him a moment before lightly resting a fingertip on each of the vertebrae running up his neck. He twitched minutely. 

She murmured a spell and tapped her wand in between each of her fingers. With each tap, a little golden light appeared and sank through his skin into his spine, illuminating it, and casting into stark relief the knot of dark tendrils clustered around his spinal cord and spanning out along his nerves. 

She stared for several minutes, her throat tightening. 

“This is going to paralyse you someday,” she finally said in a strained voice. “But you already know that.”

He barely moved in acknowledgement. 

She muttered the spell she used for treating cruciatus and tapped lightly along his neck, easing the painful knotting of muscles running up his neck to the base of his skull and down into his shoulders. 

He hissed through his teeth and shuddered. 

Hermione withdrew her hand. “I didn’t bring my satchel. What salves and embrocations do you have?”

He slumped and gave a sigh of long-suffering. “Third cabinet to the left of the sink.”

Hermione spent several minutes going through his collection. His collection of healing balms rivaled hers. Some of the salves were rare enough that she'd never seen them; she’d never had time to brew something so intricate and time-consuming. Each one was labeled and dated, spanning decades. 

Years and years of trying to find a solution.

Her throat felt thick but she forced herself to clear it. “Moody said you had a report on Sussex,” she said as she lined up more potions along the worktop, evaluating which would be most suitable.

“I haven’t written it yet.”

She nodded and selected four potions before walking over and taking her place behind him again. 

Standing there, it reminded her of healing Draco’s runes. The tense, defensive way Severus held himself was so familiar. 

There was a hollowing ache in her chest as she looked down and unscrewed a lid. She cast a barrier charm on her hand and scooped out the embrocation with her fingertips. 

“I’m going to touch you,” she said again, just before she pressed her fingers against his spine. 

She spread the salve in an even layer up to the base of his skull and then down to as much of his shoulders as were bared. Her touch was careful and light, her fingers trailing over all the dips and rises of bone and muscle. She cast a warming charm on his skin as she finished and let the salve set for several minutes. Then she began on a complex series of enchantments to repair and protect his nerves from the expanding injury, reducing the pressure and swelling. 

Severus was silent as she worked. Quick shudders ran through him when she disturbed his nerves, but she worked carefully. She’d always had very steady hands and a tendency towards surgical precision. 

Finally after a long silence, she spoke again. “Why did you join the curse division? With an injury like this, you have to have known the Dark Arts would exacerbate it.”

He looked back at her, and she caught a glimpse of his scowl. “You never stop asking questions, do you?”

She continued to work on his neck without responding. 

He sighed. ”At times the stiffness and numbness leaves my dueling proficiency with much to be desired. I’ll contribute far less when deceased.”

Hermione’s fingers went still at the breadth of his implication. She stared down at him, sitting huddled in his cold, silent house.

“I’m sorry, Severus,” she finally said, resting her hand on his shoulder. 

He scoffed. “Please do not soil my robes with unguents.”

She rolled her eyes and continued to work for several more minutes. She cast a barrier over the salves she’d spread along his neck and then lifted the collar of his shirt back up. 

“Finished,” she said. 

She stood watching as he re-buttoned his clothing and shifted his shoulders, turning his neck experimentally.

He stood up and looked down at her. “What’s your diagnosis then, healer?” he asked, his tone derisive.

Hermione stared up at him, a crushing weight in her chest. “You should have told me years ago.”

He just stared impassively down at her. 

She looked down, inhaling. “You need more extensive treatment than potions. You’re just managing the symptoms. If you could take some time off, I could perform a procedure to extract some of the concentration—“

“Out of the question.” His voice was cold. 

She sighed, her heart sinking. “You should let me treat you. Monthly at least. I can help manage the swelling and restore the nerves. If you’re proactive about treatment, it will give you more time.”

His lips twitched and his expression tensed. “How much time would you estimate I have?”

She inhaled. “It will be gradual. The stiffness and pain will grow more severe, and the potions needed to mask it will impair your coordination. If it’s not monitored, it could reach your brain. The—“

“How much time?”

Her chest spasmed and she kept her eyes fastened on his chest rather than meet his eyes. “If you keep working in Sussex, you’ll probably lose most mobility within five years.”

He nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“The procedure—“

“No. Unless you have an additional Heart of Isis hidden on your person, you are not going to cure me of this. Neither of us have the time. I have a report to write up. Wait here, and refrain from touching anything if you can possibly help it.”

He turned and swept out of the room, leaving Hermione alone in the unlit kitchen. 

Her exhaustion swept over her again. She sank into the chair Severus had vacated. After several long minutes, she leaned forward and rested her head on the kitchen table. Her eyes fluttered closed. 

A light touch on her wrist make her jerk awake. 

Severus was standing beside her, a scroll in one hand. His other hand was resting on her wrist, turning it as he stared down, studying her forearm. 

Her sleeve had ridden up and in the cold, grey light, the most freshly healed cuts on her inner arm were dimly visible as a multitude of faint silver scars.

She jerked her hand away quickly, pulling her sleeve past her wrist and standing. 

“Is that the information?” she said, focusing on the scroll he was holding. She could feel the tension radiating out from her spine and threading up to wrap around her throat like a stranglehold.

“Yes.” Severus’ voice was lacking it’s usual acidity. His tone was muted. 

She inhaled shakily, avoiding his gaze, her eyes locked on the scroll as she extended her hand. “I’ll be on my way then.”

He held it out, but when she tried to take it, his grip tightened. She pulled, and he stepped closer. She looked up sharply. 

His eyes were narrowed as he studied her. “And how are you faring, Miss Granger?”

Her chest tightened. “I’m fine,” she said in a firm voice. 

She tried again the pull the scroll away, but only succeeded in pulling Severus closer.

He raised an eyebrow. “Indeed. How are things with Draco?”

She felt the blood drain from her face as she tried to step away. Severus followed her, caging her between his body and the table. 

“He’s fine,” she said, forcing her voice to stay even though her throat felt so thick she could hardly speak. “I think he’s fine. He’s not—he won’t speak to me right now. But I think he’s fine. I’ll see him tomorrow.” Her chest gave an empty, pained spasm as she tried to breathe.

She forced a smile and met Severus’ eyes. “He’s alive. That’s what I wanted. I can’t complain.”

She looked away, letting go of the scroll and trying to escape the place he’d cornered her. His other hand caught her shoulder, stilling her. 

She looked up. His expression was visibly concerned. His fingers gripping her arm drew her closer as he studied her face, his eyes rapidly scanning her features.

“I’m fine,” she said again, her voice strained but forceful. “He’s alive.” Her chest spasmed. ”I got what I wanted, so I can’t complain.”

As she said it, the shattered sense of devastation that she kept trying to ignore welled up and her shoulders trembled. She gave low, broken gasp and pressed the back of her hand over her mouth. She tried to swallow, but her shoulders shuddered until she gave a whimpering sob. She dropped her head forward against Severus’ chest. Her shoulders shook as she cried.

To her surprise, Severus arm wrapped around her shoulders as she stood sobbing into his robes for several minutes. She finally calmed, her chest stuttering as she tried to breathe. 

“Sorry,” she said under her breath as she quickly wiped her cheeks. “I’ve just been tired lately.” She blinked rapidly and scrubbed her eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t—I won’t keep coming here and crying, I promise.”

Severus had not withdrawn his arm from where it wrapped around her back. She drew an unsteady breath and looked up. 

He had an unreadable expression on his face as he stared down at her. His other hand rose up, his fingers unfurling and half-hesitant, wavering for a moment before he pressed his palm against her cheek, his thumb brushing away residual tears. 

She forgot sometimes how much she missed being touched. Everyone touched her so hurriedly, as though to remind her that there were other, more urgent matters at hand. 

Her world was so cold and clinical. Astringent. 

She sighed and closed her eyes, resting the weight of her head against Severus’ hand, relishing the fleeting warmth. 

Then she drew a deep, steadying breath and opened her eyes. 

Severus’ face was near her own, his eyebrows furrowed, his black eyes pensive. His fingers twitched against her cheek. 

“I am sorry for what we did to you,” he said, his voice soft. 

Hermione met his gaze for a moment before the corner of her mouth quirked in a sad smile. “I just hope it makes a difference someday. That it counts for something eventually.”

She straightened and started to draw away, but Severus’ fingers curled, catching her jaw. 

Her eyes widened as he tilted her head back and his his lips brushed against hers.

Hermione stood frozen for an instant, heart pounding, before her fingers gripped his robes where they were damp from her tears. She closed her eyes. 

Her mouth met his, and her lips moved against his for a moment before she let go and stepped back.

Severus didn’t try to stop her. His hands slipped away, dropping at his sides. She shook her head firmly as she stared at him.

“I can’t,” she said. 

He picked up the scroll, lying on the table and held it out, letting go as she took it. 

Hermione drew herself up and met his eyes. “Take care of yourself, Severus. The Order needs you.”

He didn’t respond as she turned and quickly left. 


	9. Fenrir Greyback x Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Alpha Fenrir x Omega Hermione  
Rating: E 
> 
> Reader discretion is very strongly advised.
> 
> TW: torture, detailed fantasies of rape and cannibalism, references to werewolf bestiality, allusions to pedophilia.

The Mudblood’s scream tears the air open, flooding the room with the smell of fear. Like the scent of a deer with its belly slit, it sends a shiver across Fenrir’s scalp. 

He watches her back twist, and the white of her eyes shine in the darkness as they roll back in her head. 

The scream hasn’t stopped yet. It keeps rising. 

Finally it breaks with a raw gasp.

Fenrir’s body shifts. He leans in, watching with anticipation. His blood’s pulsing hot. His mouth waters when he sees her collapses on the floor.

“Where did you get the sword?” the old witch is shrieking, jabbing with her wand until the girl’s body spasms and twists again. 

Screams vibrate the windows. 

Her fingers curve like claws, scratching on the floor until the nails catch and tear off.

They keep clawing, leaving trails of blood on the wood. 

The Malfoy whelp comes back into the room, looking ready to shit himself. He stays near the wall, his eyes moving from the girl, to Fenrir, to his parents.

Fenrir ignores him, inhaling deeply. The smell of blood is thick now. He tastes it, closing his eyes when his mouth waters. His jaw goes slack, and he breathes heavy, wanting to gorge himself on the scent.

He’s hard and nearly aching already. 

He opens his eyes and finds the Malfoy witch staring at him, her white face twisted with disgust. 

Fenrir grins savagely, baring his teeth as he presses a hand between his legs, rubbing himself and giving a loud groan. He lets his tongue hang out. 

The Malfoy witch looks away and pushes her son towards a corner.

The girl’s scent is filling the air. Her blood and magic. 

He rubs a clawed hand against his cock again as he imagines sinking his teeth into her. 

She’s young enough still: the way he likes them. The muscle and skin so sweet and supple. The screams soft. 

He could gorge himself. Peel her meat off slow until there isn’t enough left to keep her alive. Scrape out her marrow with his claws. Lick her blood off the floor when he’s done. 

Oh he could...

He could. 

She’s his once the old witch is done. 

He’s hard and salivating at the thought of the feast the Mudblood would make.

He could spend days eating her. 

He would. 

But he won’t. He plans to keep her. Alive. 

There are others to eat. 

There are better uses for that Mudblood.

Her magic is ripe. Every wave that flares out from her when she screams calls to him. 

A shiver slides through his gut. He drags his tongue across his teeth.

Fenrir’s always cared about blood and magic, just not the way the wizards do. 

The magic in the Malfoy house smells like blood from a diseased animal. Thin. Weak.

The old witch torturing the girl is a shriveled crone, and her magic in Fenrir’s mouth tastes like shoe leather. 

The Mudblood girl’s magic is like the woods after rain. The heady, fertile wildness fills his brain like it's Spring. Fenrir can’t wait to get his cock inside her. He’ll breed her. 

Her magic is pulsing and alive. 

He doubts she knows what she’s carrying in her blood, doubts that anyone knows. 

Fenrir knows.

He’ll turn her on the next full moon and fuck a litter out of her. He’ll turn the pups as soon as they wean. The ones that survive will have magic like hers. 

He’ll have a real pack. 

The Mudblood screams again and vomits blood when the old witch keeps cursing her.

The screams are getting weaker. Soft, like mewls. 

Fenrir shifts, rolling his shoulders. His clothes are sticking to his skin as his blood pulses, and he thinks what he’ll do with the girl before the next moon comes.

He’ll be knotted inside her when he sinks his teeth in and turns her. 

His cock twitches, and he grips it harder, like she will when he stuffs her full of himself.

The girl won’t take much more cruciatus before she goes mad. The old witch will move on to the wizards then. 

A few more minutes, and she’s his.

He shudders with excitement. 

He doesn’t need her sane. 

Everything he wants is between her legs. 

He just has to wait a little longer to get it.


	10. Harry x Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Harry x Luna  
Rating: T

He thought he’d figured the next part of his life out. He’d have a family. He’d be an auror. It all seemed like natural things to do after the Battle of Hogwarts.

But sometimes there’s a weird sense of longing in his chest, as though there’s a string tied up somewhere in his ribs, and it’s being pulled at. It hits him without warning. In the middle of dinner, or when he wakes in the morning. Once it even happened when Ginny smiled at him.

It’s like all the colour in the world drains away. All the flavour. Like a slowing clock, suddenly life feels stretched out and endless in all the wrong ways.

Whenever it happens, everything around him suddenly feels empty. Sometimes it will only last a few minutes, but other times it lingers for days—weeks occasionally. Sometimes months, but he pretends he’s better.

His sense of motivation drains out of him, and he floats listlessly. His job performance always nosedives.

Ginny breaks up with him. He doesn’t seem like he actually wants the relationship, she says, her eyes tearful. It feels like they’re just together because it’s a habit.

He sank into the monochrome gloom for weeks after that.

The Weasleys are still his family. He thinks at first that he’ll have to leave, but Molly won’t hear of it. Family is always family.

It takes two months, but eventually Ginny starts to feel like a friend again.

The tugging in his chest keeps happening. Sharper sometimes, like something is tearing inside him. Like the lack of colour is because he’s bleeding to death inside.

Sometimes he thinks he’s going mad. He has all the things he ever wanted, yet somehow he doesn’t know how to stay happy about any of it.

Perhaps a mind-healer, Hermione advises him, someone to freely talk to. It might help. It helped her.

Harry tries going but can’t figure out how to say anything but what he feels he’s supposed to say. He sits through five sessions and then stops. The healer’s questions grated and her scratching quill make him feel like he’s with Rita Skeeter again.

He goes for a lot of long walks in the fields around the Burrow.

“Hullo, Harry.”

He looks up and finds Luna standing in front of him, barefoot, a flower crown upon her head.

“Luna. I didn’t know you were back.”

“Daddy’s got a case of wrackspurts. The best gurdy root is in England, so we came back.”

“I’m sorry. Good trip then?”

She smiled dreamily, and her body sways like a willow branch as she nods. “We’ll be going back as soon as Daddy’s better.”

Xenophilius Lovegood is losing his mind. Dementia and general instability. He’s been deteriorating for years. According to Luna, he’s just about to turn a corner and recover, but the weeks turn into months.

Whenever life begins turning grey, Harry finds himself wandering the meadows until he finds Luna.

Somehow the days always feel like summer.

They’ll lie in the sunshine, and Harry will close his eyes. Through his eyelids, the world is golden again. He can hear the breeze as it stirs the grass and feel the sunlight sinking in. He doesn’t know why life seems so hard now when it’s easier than it’s ever been before.

Luna’s humming a song as she twists together a new flower crown. She’s already wearing one. Today she's crowned with sunflowers.

“That one for me?”

She looks down, and her hair cascades around their faces as she leans over him. They’re hidden behind a golden curtain, just the two of them.

“This one’s for Daddy.”

Then she reaches down and rests her fingers against his face. They’re cool to touch, but heat rushes through him.

Harry finds his heart racing as he stares up at her.

“Perhaps sunflowers would suit you too,” she says after a minute. The smile on her face fades. “There are a few wrackspurts in your mind.”

Harry stares up at her. “Do you have them?”

She gives a little humming nod and straightens, finishing off the flower crown in her hands. “I’ll make you one next time. I can’t leave Daddy for too long.”

Harry sends a note in to work the next day saying he’s sick and then goes back to the meadows, wandering through the tall grass until he sees her.

She has a basket of flowers dangling on her arm, and her smile is like the dawn.

He can feel his pulse first weaken and then race, and suddenly life is rushing past, like a train leaving the station, and he’s suddenly realised he wants to catch it. There’s a rush of desperation through him; it’s like the moment he felt his magic in Ollivanders and found a home in Hogwarts.

His head rests on Luna’s lap as she laces flowers together. Sunflowers, lavender, mint, and sage leaves. It’s the most elaborate crown he’s ever seen her make.

She leans over him as she sets it on his head. She presses two fingers between his eyes, then with a little smile, she taps the tip of his nose, and her fingers brush against his lips.

He impulsively presses a kiss against them. Her pale, silvery eyes widen in surprise.

He sits up and brushes back her hair before his thumb ghosts along the pale skin of her throat. She doesn’t move; she simply watches him.

She has no crown today. Harry lifts his off his head and slips it onto her. Her eyes are alight. His hand reaches for her waist as he leans towards her.

He thinks, as his arm slides around her, that he could fall in love with her. He already loves her, although he only realised it recently. When he’s with her, all the cracks and holes in his life stop feeling so defining.

He has only ever been one person to her. His mouth presses tentatively against her silken lips.

He feels her lips curve into a smile as they move against his own. He draws her closer and kisses her again. The air smells like summer. Like sunflowers, lavender, and mint.

Her fingers lace in his hair.

He feels complete. Like he can finally see what the point is supposed to be again.

He’s not the-boy-who-lived, he’s not an orphan, or a saviour. It doesn’t matter whether he’s destined for greatness or nothing at all.

He kisses her, and he’s just Harry.


	11. Harry & Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hermione crying, being comforted by Harry.
> 
> Tropes: Post-war, EWE.  
TW: references to torture and psychological trauma

She had to be somewhere.

Harry’d seen her slip out of the room and go upstairs, but he’d searched three floors and hadn’t found her yet. She always seemed to be disappearing and he couldn’t understand why.

He quietly turned the knob of another door and poked his head in, peering into the darkness.

There was a silence and he was about to move on down the hall when he heard the ragged sound of an unsteadily drawn breath.

He narrowed his eyes and peered into the darkened room. “Hermione?”

The was a crash, then a string of muttered curses and light suddenly shone, revealing Hermione standing in the corner, her wand gripped in one hand while she scrubbed her face with the other.

“Need something, Harry?” Her voice was bright and cheerful, in stark contrast the dark, drab room she was currently hiding in and the tears she was rapidly wiping away.

He shook his head. “No. I was just wondering in you were okay. You left and never came back.”

She crossed the room, her shoes tapping in a familiar, assured stride and her chin held high. “I’m fine, Harry. Just girl stuff, you know?”

Harry swallowed uncomfortably and nodded with confusion, looking immediately away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just—you disappeared last time too.”

Hermione’s smile didn’t so much as waver in the wand-light but she froze briefly. “Did I? I didn’t realise. I’m fine. Let’s go back down.”

Harry stepped back from the door so she could pass. Hermione extinguished the light on the tip of her wand and drew a deep breath that hitched slightly at the end. She looked at Harry, smiled aggressively once again, and started for the stairs with an intentional stride.

They descended two floors in silence before the voices of the group down on the first floor of Grimmauld Place began to reach them.

The house was depressing to be in alone. Harry tried to invite everyone over as much as he could.

Hermione’s foot was in midair on the steps when the sharp voice of Molly Weasley suddenly vibrated through the air from two floors below, her tone enraged. “Ronald Weasley, where did you put my wand?”

As it came up through the floor, Harry was suddenly struck by the realisation that Molly’s raised voice was uncomfortably similar to another witch’s.

His head jerked up to look at Hermione to see if she’d noticed it, and he caught sight of her face just in time to see her gasp and turn ghastly white.

She stumbled and nearly fell down the flight of stairs before catching herself on the bannister and collapsing against the wall.

She tucked her arm and legs up around her body, curling into a tight ball against the wall, halfway down the stairs. He could hear her breathing rapidly.

There was ringing laughter downstairs.

Harry stood frozen, his mouth dry, and his chest painfully tight as he tried to make his voice work.

“Her-Hermione,” he finally managed to say, “are you alright?”

She rocked slightly and he could hear several convulsing breaths through her nose before she gave a muffled sob.

“I’m—fine,” she said, her voice audibly straining and not sounding even remotely fine. “Just—scared the wits out of myself—almost falling down the stairs.”

Her voice was tiny.

Harry sat down on the step beside her and after several moments, hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder.

There was the sound of laughter downstairs again, and then Ron’s voice filled the air, singing loudly and off-tune, joined by Lavender’s.

“I’m really fine, Harry,” came Hermione’s muffled voice through her hair. “You—go on downstairs. I’ll only be a minute.”

Harry didn’t move. He still felt like he couldn’t properly breathe as he sat there, feeling Hermione’s entire body shake under his hand.

“It’s Molly’s voice, isn’t it?” he said after a minute. “When it’s raised—it sounds like Bellatrix. That’s why you went all the way up to the top of the house.”

There was a long pause before Hermione’s head shifted as she gave a small nod.

Harry’s stomach twisted painfully. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think—“

“It’s fine,” she said, cutting him off and lifting her head. She rubbed her eyes quickly, her voice suddenly matter-of-fact and businesslike again. “Why would you? I wouldn’t have ever thought of it myself.”

Harry’s chest tightened and he licked his lips trying to find the right words. “But I didn’t ever think—I never asked if you were really alright after Malfoy Manor—“

“I am alright!” Her voice was razor sharp. “I’m fine!”

She inhaled and looked down at her lap, her voice becoming that careful, recitative tone she used during interviews. “There are just parts of the war I’m still processing.”

She gave another forcefully bright smile, shrugging carelessly. “I have a therapist and everything. So I’ll be fine. It’s not going to be a thing forever—it’s not that big a deal.”

By the end her voice had assumed that rapid, frazzled edge that reminded Harry of exam weeks.

He stared at her. “Is it why you ended things with Ron?

“No,” she said. But too quickly, too forcefully.

She seemed to realise it immediately and her eyes dropped.

“There were other reasons,” she said after a moment, without looking at Harry, her voice subdued. “It wasn’t just that.”

The sound of Ron and Lavender’s laughter floated up the stairwell.

Harry licked his lips, curling his right hand into a tight fist. “You know, I could talk to Molly. She’d want to know.”

“No,” Hermione said firmly. “Don’t. She’d be so upset and she’d never feel comfortable around me again. Besides—“ she looked away again and Harry saw her jaw tremble briefly before she pressed her lips together. Her hands fidgeted and she gripped her wand. “It’s not—it’s not just her. It’s any women, actually. When they yell or their voices just get sharp. It—I—“ her voice broke briefly and she inhaled, nodding, “I know she’s dead. I saw her die, so I know she’s dead.”

There was a long pause, and Hermione sat blinking rapidly. Finally, her head dipped down into her hands and she gave a whimpering sob.

“When I hear a voice that sounds like hers—“ she sniffed, “—it’s like there’s a part of me that won’t stop believing that I’m going to look up and see her—“ her voice grew thick and her shoulders shook, “—and I don’t know how to turn it off.” She sobbed again and dropped her head down onto her knees. “I can’t turn it off. I keep trying—I keep going to new healers, but nothing ever works—“

She broke off and sat crying into the sleeves of her jumper.

Harry scooted closer and wrapped his arms tightly around her as her shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m so sorry.”

He kept repeating it over and over.

He didn’t know what else he could say.


	12. Neville Longbottom x Daphne Greengrass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Neville x Daphne. 
> 
> Rated: T  
Post-war vignette. 
> 
> TW: allusions to childhood abuse.

Neville’s whole body is too warm and the robes his grandmother insisted he wear itch.

“They were your father’s,” she said when he objected. “You should be proud to wear them.”

No matter how many freshening charms he cast on them, they smell like they’ve been packed in doxyballs for two decades. Neville shuts his mouth, drops his eyes, and puts them on, even though he knows full-well the pitying looks and mockery he’ll get when he walks in, wearing tailored robes that aren’t tailored to him.

Neville knows his grandmother doesn’t see a grandson when she looks at him. Augusta Longbottom is looking for her son when she stares at Neville’s face; he can tell by the disappointment that’s always visible in the back of her eyes.

She only sees Frank Longbottom in the negative space; all those ways Neville never measures up, even when he’s gripping his father’s wand in his hand, reading all his father's old books, and dressing in robes too tight and too old for him.

Neville had thought it might all change after the war was over. He felt like he’d found himself, finally managed to make a space in the world that was all his own. His grandmother’s eyes gleamed when Neville was accepting his Order of Merlin First Class. After Neville testified about the crimes committed at Hogwarts, she put her hand on his arm as they walked out of the Ministry together.

It takes a few weeks before he realises it’s still Frank she’s looking for.

She reminds him daily of the need to prepare for Auror training. Even though Neville’s NEWTs made him ineligible, Minister Shacklebolt has made an allowance for anyone who fought in the Battle of Hogwarts.

Augusta assumes Neville will join the Ministry as an Auror. Of course he will. He wants to honour his father’s memory, doesn’t he? He wants to make his parents proud, even if they’ll never know they are.

In Augusta’s opinion, Neville should be grateful he has a second chance, an extra opportunity to make something of himself.

Neville’s existence has always been disappointment enough for the Longbottoms. He’s never tried to be a disappointment, he just is.

Why shouldn’t he want to be an Auror?

He doesn’t have an answer, so he agrees.

There’s a welcome event at the Ministry for the new trainees. Neville prepares for it with a dry mouth, pulling on the robes and looking at the picture of his father twenty-years earlier, wearing those same robes.

Neville’s mum is in the picture beside him.

They’d been engaged when they joined the program.

When Neville arrives, a few steps behind his grandmother, he discovers that no one cares what robes he’s wearing. He’s the celebrity of the incoming class. Harry and Ron didn’t return to finish at Hogwarts, so they started the year before. They’re both there when Neville arrives, in red Auror robes tailored to fall properly on their shoulders.

It’s alright for a few minutes, but he’s expected to begin mingling with everyone else. Neville’s never been good at small talk. He’s been awkward his whole life, and cutting off a snake’s head once doesn’t actually change that, even though everyone seems to think it would.

The worst part for Neville, the reason he always feels like he’s a bug pinned down under a magnifying glass, is that he is never sure whether the people he’s talking to know about his parents.

Most older folks know. They followed the trials. Their eyes are sad and they tell him where they were when they heard the news, about crying during the testimonies.

But Neville’s never sure when they’re younger. He feels protective of his mum and dad. People should respect them. He doesn’t want them to be an anecdote from the first war; doesn’t want them to be forgotten. He can’t bear the idea that anyone would think he doesn’t mention them because he’s ashamed of them.

He starts stammering when talking to the head of the DMLE. His words won’t seem to come out in the right order and the collar of his robes are much too tight. All the seams itch. His grandmother’s eyes grow cold and her expression freezes as she stands beside Neville, her fingers curling into claws where they rest on his arm until the nails are biting through the velvet.

Finally, he excuses himself and flees the stifling conversation. He finds his way outside and stands panting, trying to unfasten the buttons at his neck. His fingers can’t seem to catch them, and he starts to think he’s going to strangle himself standing there.

“Need a hand?” a cool voice cuts into the constricting world closing in on him.

Neville whirls and finds Daphne Greengrass a few feet away, studying him.

His arms drop to his sides as his face begins to burn. “No. No. I’m fine.”

She steps closer.

She has green eyes that are too far apart, making her look odd and very catlike in a way that isn’t exactly pretty. They were in the same year, but Neville doesn’t remember much about her. She wasn’t the type of person who drew much attention.

“Your robes are the wrong size,” she says after a moment.

“They were my dad’s,” Neville says.

It’s an explanation and an excuse all at once.

“Well…” Daphne’s looking him and down, her eyes glittering.

Under her stare, Neville can feel the trousers where they pool around both ankles and the shoulder seams digging into him.

“You’re not your dad,” she says after a minute.

She probably doesn’t mean it in any particular way, but she’s putting into words the lifetime of disappointed stares from Neville’s entire family.

His stomach clenches and he thinks he might be sick. His face is burning and the collar’s so tight his skin feels ready to burst. He turns, pulling at the buttons again and the fabric loosens.

Looking up, he finds Daphne’s wand pointed at his throat.

His mouth goes dry and his hands jerk reactively before he realises that she just altered the collar on his clothing and isn’t in the act of hexing him.

He stands blinking at her until she puts her wand down.

“Thanks,” he says much too late.

She tilts her head and seems to be studying his shoulders. She looks up and meets his eyes. “May I?”

Neville nods, even though he’s not really sure what he’s agreeing to.

Daphne steps closer and runs the tip of her wand along his shoulder, whispering a spell. The fabric grows, just enough that Neville doesn’t feel like he needs to keep his shoulders drawn up to his ears.

She casts the spell on the other side and keeps alternating bit by bit until the seams have shifted to the edge of his shoulders.

“That’s all I can do,” she says stepping back.

It feels amazing.

“Thanks,” he says again.

The corner of her mouth turns up. “It’s nothing.”

Neville’s mouth feels dry. “It’s a lot to me.”

Daphne’s head tilts and she’s quiet for a moment. “You’re a hero now. Aren’t you used to it?”

There’s an edge of sarcasm to the question, but it isn’t needling.

Now that he can breathe again, Neville can think clearly and doesn’t feel like he’s being strangled to death for the audacity of existing.

He takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “That why you did it?”

She rolls her eyes. “It was pity, Longbottom. You looked ready to keel over from the lack of oxygen.” Her tone’s acidic.

It’s intended as a warning, like a cat putting its back up and spitting, but Neville’s always felt more comfortable when people aren’t trying to be friendly.

Not many people wanted to be his friend until he was a hero, and all those friendships feel paper-thin.

Neville never counted for much of anything to anyone until he pulled out the sword of Gryffindor. It’s the only moment in his life that matters, and the only part of him that people care about.

He shrugs and changes the subject, not wanting to go back inside. “What are you here for?”

Daphne glances away, looking uncomfortable. “My sister, she wants to be an Auror.”

Neville vaguely remembers another Greengrass girl at Hogwarts. Very small and pale. Not exactly the Auror-type, but then again, Neville’s hardly one to judge.

“That’s cool,” he says.

Daphne avoids his eyes. “She won’t get in. She can’t pass the physical. She’s delicate. But—big dreams, you know?”

Neville can tell that there’s an ocean of context behind what Daphne’s saying. He doesn’t know what it is, but there’s a weight between all the words that he’s familiar with.

All those things you can’t say, even though they shape everything.

“Sorry.”

Daphne’s quiet for a minute, staring out into the dark. “She’ll get over it.”

Without looking at Neville, she smiles and it’s bright like crystalware, all glittering edges. Breakable. She gives a quick laugh like a glass shard. “She’s the one with all the dreams. Somehow everything managed to skip me and go to her.”

The words are bitter like there’s poison under Daphne’s tongue but her expression isn’t resentful. She looks wracked with guilt.

Neville begins to understand.

Daphne’s smile drops and she looks down. “She wants me to do it all for her. I don’t qualify to be an Auror, so at least tonight it’s not all on me.”

Neville doesn’t know what to say.

“I don’t want to be an Auror,” he finally says.

Daphne looks surprised, her wide-set eyes study him. “Really? I thought being the hero forever was Gryffindors’ whole thing.”

Neville swallows and shrugs a shoulder, glancing away.

“I didn’t mind who I was.” His throat tightens and the knot in his stomach feels like his first day at Hogwarts. “Turns out I was the only one though.”

There’s a long pause and then Daphne looks up at him.

Her mouth twists and her eyes are bitter. “Life’s a lot of shit, isn’t it?”

She might be the first person who understand how he feels.

He nods. “Yeah. Yeah, it really is.”

  
  



End file.
